Chapter 3: Autopsy Answers
The chill of the NCIS autopsy suite hit Lisbon the moment the heavy door swung shut behind them, a cold that carried the sharp, sweet tang of disinfectant underneath something older, more organic. The hum of ventilation fans was a constant low drone.
Special Agent Jethro Gibbs moved with a silent, prowling efficiency ahead of her, his presence altering the room’s atmosphere. He gave a single, curt nod to the man bent over a stainless-steel table.“Ah, Jethro! And you’ve brought a guest.” Dr. Donald “Ducky” Mallard straightened up, his eyes bright and inquisitive behind his glasses. He offered a warm, if slightly formal, smile to Teresa. “I’m Dr.Mallard. And you are?”
“Agent Lisbon, FBI observer,” she said, returning the smile.Her gaze didn’t shy away from the sheet-draped form on the table. She’d been here before, in rooms like this.Too many times.
“Observer,” Gibbs repeated, the word flat.He leaned against a counter, arms crossed, watching her. “Thought you should see what we’re dealing with. Get your… observations.”
“Of course,” Lisbon said, stepping forward. She pulled a pair of nitrile gloves from the box on the counter with a practiced snap.
Ducky’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he turned back to his work with a professional flourish.“Our late Lieutenant Commander Nathan Mercer. Cause of death is unequivocal: two gunshot wounds to the chest, perforating the heart and left lung.” He gently pulled back the sheet to reveal the Y-incision, the careful, brutal mapping of the man’s interior. “He was a very healthy individual.Excellent physical condition. No sign of defensive wounds on his hands or arms.”
Lisbon listened, her eyes cataloging the details. The pale skin, the clean edges of the surgical work, the stark reality of violent death reduced to clinical fact.
“Time of death aligns with the rest stop discovery,” Ducky continued.“However.” He paused for effect, picking up a clipboard. “There’s a rather compelling ‘however.’ My initial toxicology screen shows an elevated level of digoxin.A cardiac medication.”
Gibbs’s blue eyes sharpened. “He wasn’t prescribed it.”
“No, he was not. The level is not acutely fatal, but it is significant.Enough to cause dizziness, confusion, nausea. Perhaps severe enough to impair judgement or motor control.”
Lisbon’s mind clicked pieces into place.The voluntary disarming of the security system. The lack of a struggle.“So someone could have dosed him earlier. Maybe someone he trusted. It made him feel unwell, like he needed help.”
Ducky beamed at her. “Precisely!It’s a classic method of subtle incapacitation. Slows the heart, clouds the mind.He may have felt ill at dinner, or shortly after. His companion could have presented themselves as a caretaker. ‘Let me drive you home,’ that sort of thing.”
“Then they get him to the rest stop,” Gibbs stated, his voice a low gravel. “He’s woozy, compliant.They pull over.Two shots. Clean.”
“It would explain the puzzling lack of a struggle in a trained naval officer,” Ducky agreed, covering Mercer once more with a gentle respect.Lisbon peeled off her gloves, tossing them into a biohazard bin. Her movements were economical, automatic.“The digoxin. How was it administered?”
“Good question!” Ducky said, delighted.“No needle marks beyond clinical draws.I’d suspect ingestion. In his food or drink. We’re running a full panel on stomach contents now.”
“He ate at Pier Point Grill,” Lisbon said, thinking aloud.“Then had a scheduled meeting at the marina. Could have been dosed at either location. Or even after, if he had a drink with his visitor at his apartment.”
Gibbs was staring at her, his head tilted just a fraction. The watchful, assessing stare of a predator. “You’re not squeamish.”
It wasn’t a question.Lisbon met his gaze evenly. “It’s part of the job.”
“For an observer.” He pushed off from the counter, taking a step closer. The proximity was deliberate, an intrusion into her space meant to provoke a reaction. “You handled the body like you’ve done it before.You asked the right questions. Not the basic ones.”
The ventilation hum seemed louder in the silence that followed.Ducky watched, intrigued, saying nothing.
Lisbon shrugged, a casual lift of her shoulders she didn’t fully feel. “I read the case file on the flight here. And I watch a lot of crime dramas.” She offered a small, self-deprecating smile.It was a shield, thin but serviceable.Gibbs didn’t blink. He’d seen better shields.“Uh-huh.” He turned to Ducky. “Get me the full tox as soon as you have it, Duck.”
“Absolutely, Jethro.”
Gibbs headed for the door, expecting Lisbon to follow. She did, feeling his unspoken questions like a physical pressure between her shoulder blades.In the hallway, the relative warmth felt oppressive.
“The marina,” Gibbs said, not looking at her as he strode towards the elevator.“Slip 14. We’re going.Now.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for the rest of the team? Or for McGee to pull the ownership records?”
“I work better face-to-face.” He jabbed the elevator button. “You can watch how it’s done.”
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.As they stepped inside, Gibbs finally turned his head toward her. The fluorescent light carved deep lines beside his eyes.“You spotted that book,” he said, his voice low. “In the apartment. Tony said you ‘glanced’ at it.”
“It was out of place.”
“In a room full of perfectly in-place things.Tony and Ziva missed it. They’re trained investigators.” He let that hang in the confined space. “You’re not just an observer, Agent Lisbon.But you’re acting like one. Why?”
The doors dinged open onto the bullpen before she could answer—or decide if she should. The chaotic energy of the space was a stark contrast to the sterile quiet of Autopsy. Phones rang, keyboards clacked, and Tony DiNozzo’s voice carried over the din, arguing good-naturedly with McGee about a movie quote.Gibbs strode toward his desk, not waiting for her reply.He’d planted the seed. Now he’d watch it grow.
Lisbon followed, keeping her expression neutral, but her mind was racing.Gibbs saw too much. The careful persona of the quiet learner was fracturing faster than she’d anticipated. She watched him grab his badge and sidearm from his desk drawer, his movements precise and focused.The marina awaited.A sleek world of money and power. And somewhere in it, a person who had shared a drink or a meal with Nathan Mercer, who had watched him grow dizzy and confused, and who had later driven him to a dark rest stop and fired two bullets into his heart.She needed to see that place.She needed to stand on that dock. Because the person who did this wasn’t just a killer.They were a planner.A poisoner. They had needed Mercer to be calm, to be trusting, right up until the very last second.
And that, Lisbon knew with a cold certainty, made them far more dangerous than a simple trigger-puller.